


Postcards from a Plane Crash

by Whreflections



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Bobby's Good Parenting, Community: salt_burn_porn, Established Relationship, I love that that was a tag, John Finds Out, M/M, Pre-Canon, Underage Sam, anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the way to Bobby’s at the end of June, Sam remembered the book of Robert Frost he’d read last fall.</p><p>Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postcards from a Plane Crash

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 24 hours for salt_burn_porn over at lj. I wanted it to be longer, but I ran out of time, lol

On the way to Bobby’s at the end of June, Sam remembered the book of Robert Frost he’d read last fall.  
  
 _Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in._  
  
He wanted to believe it, bad enough that he’d agreed that Bobby’s was exactly where they should go, but hope was one thing and fear another.  By the time the Impala crossed the South Dakota line, Sam was chewing at his nails, shuffling his feet in the floorboard, tugging at the collar of his shirt that seemed suddenly too tight.  Dean had hardly said a word since Nebraska but he rolled the windows down to give Sam some air and turned the music up, sang along with Billy Squire.  It helped a little, not enough, but Sam tried to keep his nervous hands still.  He could let Dean think it worked, even if it mostly hadn’t.  
  
They reached Singer Salvage after dark, and Dean killed the lights and sat in the drive, listening to Rumsfeld bark.  They had a minute at least before Bobby came out, more than that if he glanced out to see the car and waited in the house.  
  
“Why don’t you stay in the car, Sam?  I’ll just—“  
  
“No.”  If Bobby was going to tell them to turn around, he’d have to tell them both.  “Can we just get this over with?”  
  
Dean’s only answer was to get out of the car, but he made no argument when Sam followed.  Out in the yard, they didn’t have far to go; Bobby waited on the front steps, just outside the screen door.  Dean shifted to stand square in front of Sam, his shoulder just brushing Sam’s chest as he stepped into place.  Sam had already grown enough to tower over him but it didn’t matter; it wasn’t about size or even strength, it was Dean, being his brother.    The truth of Dean was so often in his details rather than the hand he chose to show and Sam could see it in him then; he looked stronger than Sam knew he felt, his shoulders back and his eyes set.  The fear, that was in the too tight jab of his hands in his pockets, the smile that wasn’t a smile pulling on his mouth.  
  
“So I’m guessing dad called.”  
  
“Yeah.  Heard from John yesterday.  We had a few words; I thought I might be having company.  Still got dinner, if you’re hungry.”   Bobby leaned against the house, took a swig from his flask without taking his eyes off either of them.  Sam’s mouth had gone too dry for speech and besides, he’d promised Dean about 400 miles back that if they made it to talking here, he’d let Dean do it.  
  
“So he…you talked to dad.  And he told you what exactly?”  
  
Bobby pushed off from the wall, came to the front of the porch to peer out at them in the dark.  Moths swarmed around his head, drawn to the light, pinging against the screen.  “Do I know that he caught the two of you going at it in the back of the car, is that what you’re fishing after?  Cause I’m not gonna stand here all night while we talk around it.”  
  
Sam’s heart seemed to be beating somewhere near his throat.  Dean had gone stiff, his neck so tight Sam could see the rigid line of it past his collar.  His voice when he spoke again was rougher, uncertain.  
  
“You’re not pissed?”  Sam could’ve kissed him, right then.  They’d agreed on the way here to tell the truth but it would have been easier then to say that John was wrong, to find a way that it wasn’t what it looked like, what it sounded like because it hadn’t always been smooth between Bobby and John and he and his brother were good liars, both of them.  They could have managed it, but they didn’t want to.  They’d been hiding over a year already; a lie within a life made out of lies grew exhausting pretty quick.  
  
“I might get there if you don’t pull your shit outta that car and get in the house before the damn thing’s full of bugs. “  
  
Until Sam slung his bag across his shoulder and stepped across the threshold, he hadn’t realized exactly how terrified he’d been, how much had hung on their welcome to these walls.  His knees felt weak and he turned to thank Bobby only to find he was already right there, slapping a hand to Sam’s back.  
  
“Come on, Sam.  It’s not the best, but we can put the barbeque back in the oven and get it hot.  I imagine you boys need to sit down.”  
  
********  
  
They went to bed past midnight, but even though Dean feigned exhaustion he left their room with as much quiet as he could manage a little after three.  Sam let him go and he listened, from the top of the stairs and then at the vent, a near direct line from this guest room to the den downstairs.  
  
“—and I didn’t know what to think, Bobby.  Hell, I was half sure you’d kick us out the minute we pulled up but it’s not like we had anywhere else to go.  I mean, Sam, he’s gotta finish school and I can manage figuring that out on my own if I have to but if we could just stay a few months at least—“  
  
“Do you think I took you in as what, long term boarders?  You oughta know by now; you’ve got a home here as long as you need it.  Hey, you look at me when I’m talkin’ to you; I mean that.  You know better than to  _ever_  think you couldn’t come to me; I’ve  _told_  you better half a dozen times.  What the hell were you thinkin’?”  
  
There was a shuffle, the scrape of glass.  Most likely, Bobby was pouring for both of them.  “You know what he said to me, before we left?  ‘You were supposed to look out for him.’  Like I’ve done something to him, like I’d ever force Sam into anything he didn’t want.  I would  _never_ —“  The words cracked, Dean’s voice too thick to hold them.  “I would never.  And I’d kill anyone who tried; you’ve gotta believe me.”  
  
He left out the part where Sam himself had joined that particular conversation.  It hadn’t exactly helped, but he hadn’t been able to bear letting that accusation stand, not when he could see in Dean’s eyes how it had hit him like a shot.  
  
“I already do.  And I told your daddy as much when he called here after you two left.”  
  
“Yeah?  And what’d he say to that?”  
  
“He needs time, Dean.  Look, I’m with you on this.  Hell, to be honest, I suspected something was goin’ on with you two a while back but I wasn’t about to say a damn thing, though maybe if I had you’d have had the sense to keep your pants on in the friggin’ motel parking lot.”  
  
“You don’t have to tell me it was stupid, Bobby; I’ve got that covered.”  
  
“Well, you’re not wrong.  It was stupid.  Reckless, downright dangerous besides.  You know if the wrong person had caught you they could’ve hauled Sam off, put both you and John in jail?”  
  
“I get it, alright?  Trust me, I’ve been over this a million times; I screwed up.  It won’t happen again.”  
  
“Sure it will; you’re human.  You’re 21.  Mistakes tend to congregate around those teens and twenties.  I’ve got a few myself.”  
  
In the silence, Sam could picture Dean on the couch, glass of whiskey in his hands.  He’d had nearly the same look on his face at every moment he thought Sam wasn’t looking for the past two days, dark and full of guilt.  For all he’d said about the two of them sticking together, he hadn’t touched Sam since they’d left Texas.  
  
“You’re really ok with this?”  Incredulous, a little fearful, even now.  
  
“You spend half your time here back helping me with the cars, Dean.  The way he looks at you ain’t exactly subtle; I’d have to be blind.”  
  
“Yeah, well obviously dad never noticed.”  
  
“Or he didn’t want to.  You’re his babies; I’m not defending him kicking you out but that’d be a shock for any man.”  
  
“He didn’t kick us out, Bobby.  He told us it had to stop.  Sam said no.  Same thing I’d have said myself but if he wanted to stay I could’ve managed it.”  
  
He’d said no, and he’d meant it.  Of all he’d sacrificed over the years for their father’s sake, Dean wasn’t something he was willing to concede.  
  
There were steps across the wooden floor, Bobby’s, a little heavier on the heel, a little slower.  
  
“So whose bright idea was it to go out to the car?”  
  
“It’s my fault.”  
  
No, it wasn’t.  
  
“So it was Sam?”  
  
“Doesn’t matter.  I knew better, and I should’ve said something, but I didn’t.  I didn’t want to.”  
  
They’d been four days stuck in that room or trailing after dad between libraries and public places.  They hadn’t had five minutes alone together since they’d reached Dallas and it was driving him nuts.  An hour of watching Dean sit on the edge of their bed and clean the guns was about all he’d been able to take.  It was easy to make up his mind, so easy to slip out the door and give the code that meant  _follow me_.  
  
They should’ve gone farther, should’ve started the car and left the parking lot and Dean probably would have if Sam had let him, but he didn’t give him the time.  If he’d had the thought of getting them out on some back road, it had ceased to matter once Sam pulled him down into the backseat.  No matter what had come after, the first part remained a memory he wanted to keep, the relief of Dean’s weight on top of him, the sound he’d made against Sam’s neck when he put his lips to Dean’s ear and pleaded for his mouth.  
  
“John’ll come around, Dean.  He will.  If he has half the sense I give him credit for, he’ll see what he’s missing, and he’ll come storming in here one of these days wondering why you two haven’t come back.”  
  
********  
  
Dean didn’t come to bed until after sunrise, but Sam was waiting on him all the same.  He was a little drunk, Sam could see it in the way he kicked off his boots, the way he flopped onto the bed like his muscles gave up the minute he leaned against the mattress.  
  
“You should’ve gotten some sleep.”  
  
“You should’ve come to bed.”  Sam pressed against his brother’s side, cupped Dean’s jaw in his hand as he leaned down to kiss him.  He hadn’t shaved since Texas and his stubble scratched against Sam’s palm, a sensation that set his skin tingling.  Dean kissed him, barely, carefully, but it was acquiescence, not acceptance.  It stung, even worse when he stopped and Dean didn’t pull him back.  Dean could kiss for ages, longer still when he was drunk; Sam had more than enough experience to know.  “You’re pissed at me.”  
  
“No, Sammy.”  He wasn’t; that much was true.  He’d barely been able to get Dean to glance at him sideways in the car but here, with Dean looking at up at him, it was clear that was no anger there, just exhaustion and a hurt Sam ached to soothe.  
  
“Then you’re gonna have to talk to me, Dean, because we left and then we agreed to come here and ever since you’ll hardly look at me, so what the hell am I supposed to think?  If you wanted to stay with dad—“  
  
“That’s not what this is about, Sam.”  
  
“But you did, didn’t you?  You wanted to give up and stay?”  
  
“No, I didn’t!  Jesus, Sam, I…”  He sat up, scrubbed his fingers through his hair, across his face.  “I don’t know, man; I mean what if he has a point?  You were sixteen.”  
  
“And if I remember, you were 13 when you fucked that girl in Colorado.”  
  
“This isn’t about me.”  
  
“You’re right it isn’t; so don’t make it about you.”  Sam tugged on Dean’s arm, enough to make his brother face him.  “Look, your choices, those are on you.  If you don’t want this, say so for yourself, but don’t put words in my mouth, and don’t think you ever did.  I knew what I was doing.  I still do.  No one else has a right to speak for me on that; dad sure as hell doesn’t, but you don’t either.  If I want this, that’s up to me.”  His fire played out, left the question he hadn’t wanted to ask, not properly.  Still, he had to.  “But if you don’t want this, Dean—“  
  
“The hell I don’t.”  Dean caught the front of his t-shirt, pulled forward for a kiss that was initially more awkward than productive though they found their rhythm fast.  Sam leaned back then, pulled Dean with him until his legs could spread around Dean’s hips, until there was nothing but the rough drag of their clothes between them.  Dean kissed like  _Dean_  now, all tongue and heat and deliberation.  Sam clung to him, his hands roving across Dean’s back, down to slide his hands into the back pockets of his brother’s jeans.  
  
It was last summer right out back behind an old Pontiac that he’d discovered the sound Dean made when he did that, the way his hips would twitch, torn between pressing into Sam’s hands or into his cock.  His hands had grown since then, not too marked to his own eyes but enough that he could palm Dean’s ass with a little more ease, a little more force.  Sam spread his legs just a little wider, kneaded with his hands to encourage the way Dean’s hips had rocked forward at his touch.  
  
Dean’s mouth tore from his with a gasp.  “Oh  _fuck_.”  
  
Even at a whisper, it made Sam flush with heat.  He nuzzled against Dean’s cheek, his breath catching at the sandpaper scrape of it.  “Yeah.  I want you to fuck me.”  He was hungry for as much of Dean as he could have, more now than he had been days ago.  He needed the closeness, the heat, the burn and stretch of Dean’s cock, the sharp electric jolt he always felt when Dean came inside him.  
  
“I can’t, Sammy.  Not tonight.”  He sounded wrecked, like he hated it, and Sam remembered.  The lube was in the floorboard in the back; it had to be.  It had been in Dean’s pocket, knocked out when he stripped out of his jeans.  He’d have been willing to take without, would have been willing to try at least but Dean wouldn’t have gone it for it he knew, and it didn’t matter- before he could ask, Dean’s fingers were sliding past his lips.  He sucked hard, laved his tongue at the underside of Dean’s knuckles.  He tasted like sweat and whiskey.  
  
Sam had stripped down to his boxers before he’d gotten into bed hours ago and Dean pulled them down with one hand, Sam’s cock coming free to brush against Dean’s wrist.  He didn’t take it, shifted instead to pull his fingers from Sam’s mouth and trail them down between his legs.  
  
He didn’t tease, not this time, and the press of even one finger inside without preamble was such a sweet shock the Sam twisted and moaned, pressing down onto his brother’s hand.  He hadn’t meant to make a sound, really he hadn’t, though he was more shocked at the jolt of heat that slammed through him when Dean’s free hand pressed hot and heavy over his mouth.  
  
“If we’re gonna do this here, you need to keep it down.”  
  
He did, he knew, because sure Bobby knew and he could bear that, but if he could hear them up here fucking surely that’d be different, that’d be more than they could ask, more than he could take.  He knew that, but there was something in Dean’s force, his desperation.  Sam’s neck arched, his whimper muffled against Dean’s palm.  His cock was leaking; he could feel it slide across his stomach, wetting his shirt where it had started to slide back down.  
  
“Jesus, you get off on that don’t you?”  For a minute he caught Dean’s eyes, dark with lust and devotion, and then his head was dipping to whisper against Sam’s ear.   “We can do that, if it’s what you want.  You can bite down if you need to, Sammy; go on.”  His second finger slid into Sam beside the first, spit slick but with a little burn because it’d been a week at least since Dean fucked him and he was tight but Dean kept the movement of his fingers steady and slow, crooked them just right until Sam’s hips were jerking, sharp and beyond his control.  “That’s it, baby, just let it go, let it go, Sammy.”  
  
As he came, he bit down hard on Dean’s palm.  Dean swore, sharp and breathless, and Sam stored up the words he’d whisper as soon as Dean let him.  
  
 _If we’re gonna do this here, Dean, you need to keep it down._  
  
********  
  
They spent the summer in the salvage yard.  If not for the constancy of the stay, it wouldn’t have seemed any different than a dozen other months they’d spent at this place.  If John called, Bobby never told them.  
  
In the fall Sam started Roosevelt high school, his junior year when he should have been a senior because of all the moves they’d made, but he couldn’t find it in him to care.  
  
It was October when Dean took his first hunt alone since they’d moved, a spirit out in Oregon.  He’d been gone for over a week when Sam came home to find that Bobby had tossed the mail on the kitchen counter where he’d find it, a postcard on top with “Greetings from Oregon” sprawled in bright color across a view of pines overlooking the pacific.  
  
On the back, Dean had written in a sprawling hand, unhurried.  
  
 _I don’t know if you remember, but you used to always want to buy these when you were little, said if we had a house they could be there waiting for us to get back.  I kept a few for a while in the back of the car, but it never worked out._  
  
 _I’ll be here till the next new moon.  After that, give me a day or so and I’ll be coming home.  See you soon, Sammy._  
  
Sam put it on the fridge, took it down, taped it to the mirror and did the same.  In the end he taped it to a wall in the bedroom, top corner.  If he was going to collect the things, he might as well leave room for more.


End file.
